


three words or less

by The_Daydreams_Of_Pernelle



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Growing Up, M/M, Miscommunication, Oxenfurt (The Witcher), Pining, Self-Esteem Issues, geralt is not as good at reading jaskier as he thinks, idiots to lovers, idk i love immortal jaskier but i just have a lot of feelings about growing up, specifically on jaskier's end, wip so probably more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28211658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Daydreams_Of_Pernelle/pseuds/The_Daydreams_Of_Pernelle
Summary: The thing is that everyone who has met Jaskier, and met Geralt--whether they were together or apart at the time--would immediately know that the shining, expressive bard wore his heart on his sleeve and the glowering brick wall of a witcher was near-unknowable.* * *Jaskier and Geralt, through the years, but mostly Jaskier
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alright this is the first fic and maybe the first fiction I've written since I was literally 17 but it turns out that when you project hard enough a little idea will rattle around your head until you write it out.
> 
> I wanted to write this all in one night and have it just be a one shot but.... it turns out when you project hard enough you write way more than you expected
> 
> this is so horribly unproofread, even by myself, so I apologize for any typos or weird internal timeline discrepancies
> 
> enjoy!

Geralt met Jaskier when Jaskier was nineteen. Nineteen with bright eyes looking forward to the glorious epic he was so sure his life would become, not a thought to narrow the adventurous path was, or how sharply the cliffs' edge dropped off either side of it. Buttercup was an appropriate name for him then, leaving golden traces of himself on those he brushed up against, not through any grand design or plan, but simply because it was in his nature. He had been brave in the way only nineteen-year-olds can be brave and stupid in the way only nineteen-year-olds can be stupid. He had not seen enough people who could be heroes in his ballads have their stories cut short through the brutal lottery of luck.

He sang not of hope, but of the assuredness that everything would be quite alright. So he got bread thrown at him. And he picked them up, stuffed him in his pockets as affirmations that he had been right about the world, as an hour before he had been hungry and now he had food--things just worked themselves out. Though he was clearly mildly irritated by the general reaction to his song, he made short work of finding someone who might stoke his ego if the other tavern-goers weren't going to do so.

Geralt's lack of a positive review blew right past him as he fixated on his breathless discovery that he was speaking to a witcher--a hero or monster in Jaskier's estimation, it didn't likely matter, he could be in an epic ballad or storybook regardless. More fodder for his songs to cover up his woeful lack of life experience.

Geralt left the tavern before the man could get too excited. He almost didn't take the job offered by the poor farmer, noting the bard lurking in the background, clearly ready to follow at the scent of adventure. But, 150 ducats was 150 ducats, and he was confident he could deter a man barely out of childhood from a life of actual death and destiny. He could sing about heroics in love and heartbreak in loss, all without leaving the comfort of cushy towns and well-travelled roads.

Then the goddamned elves had to be noble and tragic. The bard got knocked around just enough to feel like he had an adventure and wasn't it grand--without suffering any real damage. He got to feel special for knowing the real story of the elves, getting to pick and choose what part of history people should know. He certainly wouldn't be satisfied with just that. Geralt could only hope his next adventure was brutal and grim enough it turned Jaskier off completely--though he would have no part in making it so.

He couldn't get rid of Jaskier for seven months.

* * *

Jaskier met Geralt when he was nineteen. It was four months after he left his family home in Lettenhove, out to prove that he could be more, better, not underneath the strict eyes of his parents and tutors. He picked the end of winter as a bit of symbolism, his new life about to be birthed in the coming spring. Stupid. The ground was still frosted over and he had no horse and little money. Though he supposed it was good he had any coin in the first few weeks of his self-imposed banishment, at least he could pay for lodging in those cold, cold days, even if it was in stables more often than not. His playing and poetry went ignored at best and driven out of town at worse--that had been a rough evening. His yarn about a terrible creature in the woods apparently struck too close to home; he later heard they had lost villagers to a beast not long ago. How was he to know? He made it all up on the road.

He had nearly given up by Posada--was considering cutting his losses and becoming a leatherworker or something. Anything to avoid running home to a lifetime of snide mockery for his little "episode," they would call it. He'd rather get taken out by one of the beasts he dreamt up while he had no one to talk to. His break came in the form of an old womanin town he nearly bowled over trying to find some shelter in pouring rain. His endless apologies and babbling seemed to actually charm her, unlike almost everyone he had run into in the past third of a year, and at her smile that made Jasker's throat close up with its warmth, he offered to carry her basket for her to her destination. She called him "a kind young man" and Jaskier thought he would give up his trade to do any job that would make people look fondly at him like that.

She led him, soaked to his core--his stockings squelching out water at every step--to her tiny cottage and directed him where to put her basket down as she lit a fire.

"I can't offer you much by way of food, but you're welcome to sit and stay by the fire until the rain lets up. I'm not shy nor do I have any inclinations of youth, so don't worry if you need to strip down to your underthings to get fully dry."

"Ah, thank you kind lady but I-" Jaskier couldn't quite tell if she was just being nice, couldn't quite see where his doublet and stockings would hang easily, didn't want to ask more of this woman than she had already given. "I think I'll be alright if I just sit a little close."

"Alright, as long as you don't catch fire in my house." She replied, fire still building but no longer needing tending, and turned to her basket. She grabbed twine from on top of the table and began trussing the various plants inside to hang with the other herbs and greenery along the lines of her ceiling.

"Are you a great witch of legend? An alchemist, perhaps? Someone who makes panaceas and magicks from humble flora?" Jasker knew he shouldn't push his luck, knew he was likely to get kicked out the instant his babbling turned from charmingly incoherent to annoying, but he couldn't stop the words from spilling out of his mouth.

Luckily, that instant didn't seem to have come quite yet. She chuckled. "No, I haven't much magic of my own. I'm an herbalist. Simple remedies only, but many people in this area have but simple problems. Sadly, they don't always bother trying to cure them, waiting for their bodies to work it out for them, even if it takes longer, meaning I'm unable to feed growing young men who stumble upon me."

"Perhaps they're simply not aware of the qualities of your services! Surely if everyone knew of your skill and remedies, they would come to you rather than suffer through the bitter medicine of time!"

The old woman smiled down at her work, unphased by Jaskier's melodramatics. "Perhaps. I don't know how I would get word out exactly. It's a small town, but tinctures for coughs and abortifacients aren't exactly gossip-worthy."

It was quiet for a moment as Jaskier turned to the fire, wishing he had taken off his stockings and doublet. The heat couldn't penetrate the thick layer of damp pressed against his skin by the fabric.

"Oh, I could be your barker!" He exclaimed. It would have more convincing, he thought, if his teeth hadn't been half-chattering and his throat hoarse--had he caught a cold in the rain? He couldn't believe he left home without a good cloak, he knew exactly the one he should have taken. Probably being eaten by moths in its trunk now. At least he was in the right place if he had, though he had no way of paying the herbalist for her wares. Short of his hypothetical arrangement as her barker. Singing songs that somehow would put food on her table even when they didn't do so for him. Perhaps that would be the hot new gossip that spread the word. Did you hear about that awful bard that came through singing songs about that old woman? Worst singer I've ever heard, and my dog fancies herself an opera primadonna, but I could actually use some salve for the cut I got the other day…

The old woman didn't stop her work for a moment as she considered. "Hmm. It couldn't hurt. Tell you what, if you write me a song and it actually gets me new customers, I'll send you off on the road with a remedy for every common ill, and a few loaves of bread to boot."

Jaskier, suppressing his shivers as her gaze turned to him for a moment, took paper, ink, and pen out from his pack with a flourish. "Now, what do they call you?"

Old Hag Nan's song did… not well. He did his best with composition, which apparently wasn't saying much, unable to keep from throwing in a line or two or three about made up little beasties to spice things up. Apparently that wasn't the sort of spice that people of the esteemed Dead Horse wanted in their lives. It had started off fine, with people generally ignoring him. When more looks came his way he let a tiny sliver of hope work its way into his chest, cracking open his heart that he would finally, finally have a song that worked, would be able to go back to someone and say "I did it, they liked me" so that terrible organ had a fault line on which to split apart when the bread began to be thrown.

Every person in that tavern, every one of them threw something. A poor town, half of them struggling to get by threw their food at him they were so upset by his singing. That was it. He couldn't take it. He'd find another town, maybe burn the lute for firewood on the way or give it to someone with actual promise. Find another town where the villagers didn't already hate him, beg for an apprenticeship somewhere, and hope his traitorous hands would learn to be good at something, even if the work didn't make his heart flutter and his life brighter. Perhaps I should be advertising Old Hag Nan as a soothsayer instead, he thought has he stuffed the tossed bread in his pockets, figuring he would wipe the dust and grime off later when he couldn't be looked down upon by the locals for being on his knees trying to salvage their impromptu weapons to eat. She did say I'd get out of town with a few loaves of bread, and maybe her remedy is me finally getting over my delusion of finding my way as a bard. 

Then, he saw the man in the corner. He was sitting both hands in his lap, staring down at something on the table with an intense stare--no plate in front of him from which projectile bread cold have originated. He looked--well he looked maybe insane--who sits at a tavern not touching their drink boring a hole in the table with their gaze? He looked two seconds away from snapping. Jaskier knew he was being, as his mother would put it, terribly maudlin, but perhaps he would snap in the middle of the tavern and put Jaskier out of his misery--maybe then the townsfolk would applaud.

It was so, so stupid but Jaskier had to ask, had to ask how his singing was. The man probably hated it as much as the rest of them but simply had no bread to throw, but some little monster in Jaskier's brain needed to know what he thought. Jaskier couldn't tell if he was being masochistic or not, inviting someone to say he was awful to his face instead of letting his stony countenance speak for him, but he couldn't help himself.

"I love how you just sit in the corner and brood." Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He had thought, why not break the ice? See if he could sweeten the man up an ounce so he would at least be slightly nicer about it if he hated the performance. Somehow he suspected that absolutely ridiculous line wouldn't do it. It sounded like he was trying to pick him up for a tumble. Not that he wouldn't be amendable, just that he would have tried to be a little more subtle or--you know--actually seductive.

Jaskier barely heard the words the man said before he was rambling on, trying to save himself from his terrible opening line before he registered that he had already been rejected. He went on anyways. He clearly wasn't going to charm this man in any way, shape, or form, he might as well get what he came for, suffer whatever blow was cast his way, and be on his way to a new life--the second one in four months.

When he registered the man was a witcher he couldn't help his excitement, despite seeing the anger in this very dangerous man's eyes grow, he kept on going, kept on going as the man walked away, clearly not going to deal with Jaskier's ridiculous antics. And he hadn't even gotten a review on his singing yet.

He watched the villager negotiate a contract with the witcher and considered following on his new life plan for a moment before deciding he was going to get that one last review before he left the bardic profession for good.

Fuck it, he already doesn't like me. I might as well pester him into telling me what he thinks of my songs. 

That was definitely masochistic. Following around a man with two different swords for killing pests trying to bother him into saying pretty words. He didn't care. If he got a good review from this man, got him to come around to his singing and playing, that would redeem these past few months and prove he could get anyone to like his songs if he just tried hard enough.

He didn't think his blathering praise was working, clearly not being able to find whatever Geralt wanted to be praised about. Each sentence brought more annoyance to the man's face, Jaskier in a deeper and deeper hole that he would not, could not stop digging. He had barely spoken to anyone in the past four months, townsfolk uninterested in talking to an obnoxious travelling bard, long roads, and a night of composing the instant he did have Nan for company. He knew he wasn't winning any points but the words kept fighting to come out of him, as though if he found one right word he could figure out from that what other right words might be.

Getting punched in the gut somehow was a relief. At least he had gotten some reaction out of this stone wall of a man. At least he could be so incredibly fucking annoying that he could merit a marble statue deigning to move its arm for his sake--even if it was his pain. He scrambled after the man to keep up, still talking.

The elves were a tragedy. Generations of pain in each of their voices, in each of their faces, when Filavandrel finally broke their bonds. A lifetime of lies crashing down in front of Jaskier's face--which he should have expected, he supposed, with the amount of lies his family and teachers told him about everything else--revealing a great sorrow that made him feel so small and stupid with his petty little sadnesses.

Geralt was like nothing he had ever seen. Steady in his manner and convictions, ready to die with honor and grace. He worried he come off mocking later, trying to impress upon Geralt the tremendousness of his admiration for his composure. Jaskier wasn't sure he could produce proof of making his words hit in the right way ever, but was certainly incapable of it now, all turned around from his day.

Filavandrel's lute. A few hours prior he had planned on quitting his vocation altogether and now he had the lute of the ancient elven king. Maybe this was the sign he needed, not a review from Geralt of Rivia, but this precious thing that had found its way into his bumbling hands. If Filavandrel could be reborn, rebuilding himself and his people in the mountains until they were stronger, Jaskier could, too. Even if on a much less grand scale, with his tiny life and tiny songs. Perhaps this witcher could expand his life, make it grander and greater and interesting enough people would have to listen--even if his rhymes were off and fingers clumsy and voice shaking. This could be his way to history, respect from Geralt or no.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alternatively titled: being nineteen is hard, y'all

Toss a Coin did better than Jaskier expected. Better than any of his songs before. He was relieved the hostile man he had attached himself to like a limpet didn't see him fail quite as spectacularly as his others, though the coin he received for his performances wasn't always worth as much as the amount of bread that was sometimes thrown at him. Though his meals now had a good bit less dirt on them. He didn't flatter himself as to think he had advanced so much in playing or vocal talents in the few weeks since Posada as to merit the increased appreciation. Something about the subject of his never-before-heard heroic tale of the White Wolf sitting right there in the tavern lending it credence must have helped. He wasn't gaining praise for his bardic talents, simply his use as a recorder of a history that would otherwise go untold. That was fine by him, as long as it kept him under a roof and somewhat fed. He learned to supplement his income gathering herbs Geralt pointed out in their travels, always harvesting a bit more than Geralt needed for his potions to sell in the next town.

This was especially necessary as his expenses had gone up. On the nights they rested in a town, Jaskier was unwilling to suggest Geralt slept in the stables as he would have, nor was he excited about the prospect of making the man with the nose of a bloodhound be subjected to that smell for weeks on end. Luckily, Geralt was willing to share a room and a bed, at least. He only slept for a few hours, stiff as a board, before spending the rest of the night repairing his armor and polishing his weapons. So it didn't seem like too much of an imposition. One day, Jaskier would dream as he slipped off to sleep, he would be able to treat Geralt to his own rooms and hot baths, would make it worth his while to have brought him along on his travels.

* * *

It's not that Geralt disliked Jaskier immediately, so much as that he was just so clearly not suited for any aspect of Geralt's life. Like oil and water, if oil could, and almost certainly would, leave water bruised, broken, or buried if they mixed for too long.

It's not that Geralt would wish his life upon anyone else, so much as that Jaskier's perpetual cheerfulness--full of naivetee and spot-blindness it was--would be such a shame to see dissipate.

Yet he stayed, a constant present near Geralt's side, his constant chattering like birdsong--sometimes cacophonous and aharmonic, sometimes a simple, beautiful melody. He could spin anything into a positive, it seemed. Even when Geralt's contracts were exactly the kind of grim and dark that he thought would break Jaskier's adventurous spirit--the kind he had hoped he wouldn't be the one to bring the bard on to see it happen--he found something to chirp about.

One job a few months into their acquaintance was… difficult. The villager who had taken it upon himself to show them through the swamp to the beast's burrow ended up with a leg ripped off, bleeding out into the muddy water as Jaskier struggled to staunch the bleeding with his own clothes.

When Geralt finally dispatched the monster, he turned back to Jaskier, covered in blood and grime, the man drawing his last breaths beside him. The bard's pale face made Geralt guiltily relieved it had been the villager instead of him, guiltily relieved that this would finally turn him off the adventuring life. The choice between returning to the village barechested and putting on his chemise and doublet, now covered in the swamp water, mud, and the blood of a dead man would hardly make for a tavern ditty.

Jaskier was quiet on their trudge back to town, the beast beheaded and all salvageable alchemical ingredients extracted from its corpse--which Geralt had to admit to himself, the man was getting quite efficient at, the years of lute-playing making his fingers nimble and sensitive to where was best to split the skin to search for precious organs and fluids and where was best to leave be. Once the bard left him, he would have to spend longer with each corpse. He had done it many times before, and it didn't take him long, but it would be a change. Geralt wondered if Jaskier would find use for the gathering skills he had learned on his future travels--perhaps a flower he could now recognize here or there, growing off the side of the road, would help him with a sore throat or fever on his way between performances. Hopefully he had learned well enough to keep on the well-travelled paths, after seeing what lurked in the forests up close and personal. Perhaps Geralt would get him a dagger as a parting gift, teach him a move or two to defend himself. He'd hate to come across another bard singing Toss a Coin and hear that the original composer had died horribly on the road. If for no other reason than Geralt doubted he'd enjoy it out of anyone else's mouth. If someone was going to sing pretty lies about him, it might as well be someone who could do it well--and who knew the real story, infusing his lyrics with the sly melodramatics that hinted to the audience that, No, this isn't quite the real world. But wouldn't it be so lovely if it was? It was a skill of Jaskier's.

While Geralt was meditating on his future, Jaskier had apparently cheered up. Before they hit town again, he was already turning to Geralt and saying "Well, that wasn't a pretty one but the town is safe now, I'm sure will make a lovely song, though perhaps a slower one, and we can get your coin. Where to next?"

Geralt nearly stopped dead but kept on, barely a glance at Jaskier before his eyes were once again on the road. "You watched a man die. If he hadn't bled out right there he would have caught an infection from the foul water. It's a blessing he died so quickly. That's what you call a ballad?"

Jaskier didn't hesitate before answering, still shirtless, still covered up to his forearms in mud and blood, chest hair caking with spattered grime. "Well, not a cheery one. But there's still hope in it. Many died before you got there, one died while you were there, yes, but how many more are safe because of you? Just because you can't name the exact people who would have died without your intervention doesn't mean they aren't saved because of you."

"Hmm. Half of them will die soon enough anyways. Monsters are common. Wolves more so. Illness even more."

Jaskier, faced with the grim reality of life laid bare at his feet by one who had a century of experience of it, laughed brightly. "Then all the more precious they have more days with which to sit by the fire. Why bother saving them at all if you truly believe that."

Geralt wanted to say coin. But that didn't seem to quite justify the deaths of his peers in the Trial of the Grasses, didn't quite justify being dropped on Vesemir's lap, didn't quite justify the years of training and mutations he had gone through, the injuries he had suffered. So he said "Hmm." And didn't tell Jaskier that perhaps he was right.

He stopped trying to get rid of him after that.

* * *

Most of their adventures had fewer epic qualities than Dol Blathanna, but Jaskier was able to spin them into songs nonetheless. He still struggled with the right rhymes and notes, constantly plucking out different combinations as they travelled, hoping the constant stream of not-quite-right melodies wasn't the breaking point for Geralt trussing him up and dumping him in town as he galloped off on Roach, impossible for Jaskier to follow. But, the realism of his songs seemed to do well. He learned not to be too flippant about the losses each village suffered, making sure to not underwrite them but to use them to make it all the more glorious when the monster was gone and each place was free of its tyranny.

When he had been little, he had one tutor who encouraged him with the lute, praising his natural talent at drawing melodies from its strings. His parents had been pleased at his hobby, encouraging him until they realized it was drawing him away from his noble duties, the life they had laid out for him. But before then he had been showered with praise, how quick he learned! How easily he composed limericks and couplets! They hadn't done quite so well in the real world, measured against other bards and his audience's mood instead of simply the low expectations set by his young age. Each line or note that played well, he took a note. Each song that caused some to cheer and others to snarl, he took a note. He still had food thrown at him more than he would like, usually when he tested new songs after Geralt had gone off somewhere, so he couldn't see Jaskier's embarrassment. He certainly already thought poorly enough of the bard, useless in a fight and slow beside Geralt's horse. Jaskier couldn't also be bad at his actual vocation.

Once Jaskier had filled all the paper in his pack--a third with new songs and the remaining with notes on the many things that didn't work and the few things that did, plus scribblings in the margins of possible connections and themes, larger lessons he could take a way from them--he made a choice. Learning on the road through practice was all very well and good, but he could gain some insights unavailable in taverns and inns across the Continent if he truly dedicated himself to study.

When autumn came around again, he would leave Geralt for Oxenfurt.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> largely jaskier's first year at oxenfurt
> 
> no geralt pov here, but there will be in the next chapter

Oxenfurt was more difficult than he thought. The classes themselves weren't so bad; the theory lectures were terribly boring, but when he took the principles he learned to his personal experimentation, he was often excited by the possibilities, the threads that brought together a pleasing melody. Making friends was harder.

He had never quite registered that he had spent so much of his childhood playing alone, the few noble children his parents introduced him to only around at formal events, where they were firmly reminded that they were better seen, not heard. Then he left to travel the world and, well, even if he could charm an old herbalist or two (but it was just one) into giving him a gig, he hadn't had the chance to make a lasting friend before. Geralt didn't exactly count.

Everyone else seemed so natural at it, chatting at each other about the wonderful tunes they had composed and their interests of study outside of music without a care in the world, the paths of new friendship well-worn in their lives. Jaskier felt constantly off-kilter, constantly striving to worm his way into friendship early, to earn their love as soon as possible so he wouldn't have to face the next four years alone as everyone settled into their relationships and roles. He accepted every invitation that came his way, sharing time with his classmates in bathhouses and taverns, sneaking glances around the establishments and at his classmates, trying to make sure he was doing the right things--ordering in the right fashion, sitting in the correct manner. Jaskier lost his virginity in a brothel, partially because he was desperate to just get rid of it, to never have to look a nice girl in the face and tell her he had no idea what he was doing, partially because Valdo Marx, tipsy off the mugs of ale he had knocked back on that warm Tuesday night, slung his arm around Jaskier's shoulder and said he thought they could be great friends, and also he so wanted to take a tumble with a pretty whore right now, was Jaskier in? And Jaskier may not have been certain what potential insinuation of that question he was saying yes to, but he figured he would be happy either way.

He ended the semester with plenty of people who thought well of him, and none who actually knew him well. That winter, his classmates trickled out of their classes with packed trunks sitting next to their doors to ferry home for the break. When they asked him his plans, he chuckled and told them they'd come back to all of Oxenfurt town singing his tunes--or singing the praises of the wild parties he would certainly throw in the empty, empty college. They left with laughter and calls of "Save some fans for us!" and then the college was quiet.

Jaskier could have gone home, he supposed, but he hadn't exactly jumped the idea. He had made just enough peace with his parents that they were putting him up for the moment. When he had gone home to ask, spinning his year-long dalliance around the continent in which he failed to become a famous bard into a story of learning the most valuable lesson of all--that he needed more learning. His father told him he wouldn't give money to such a worthless pursuit. His mother responded in her terribly soft, terribly rational voice that it wouldn't be worthless if it finally convinced Jaskier to give up the bardic lifestyle. Another year on the road might dissuade him, but it might kill him as well. At least in Oxenfurt he could fail in safety. Jaskier's father told him he'd fail within a year, so that's the time he'd give him. If he learned enough in a year, he could pay the rest of his way through.

That was--well, not exactly reflective of how profitable playing the lute happened to be for young men, nor how expensive tuition was. But Jaskier knew his father well enough to know better than to try and weasel a better deal out of him. He had meant to attempt to find some employment or patron in his first semester, but had been so caught up in making sure he had good relationships with his classmates--networking, he told himself, it would be good to know so many highborn, educated bards later in his career--he hadn't had time for a job.

Not that there were many barding posts floating around Oxenfurt. Any steady positions were taken by more experienced near-graduates, and local taverns weren't exactly a welcoming crowd after the seventh student performance of the night--often punctuated by some drama between another watching student and the one onstage. Jaskier sometimes suspected they tolerated the amount of first-year performances they did because of the high likelihood of potential entertainment of a more contentious variety. Jaskier had seen three fistfights break out over accused plagiarism in his first semester alone. Over the worst winter month he would have no companions with whom to quarrel and entertain rowdy crowds, and his still-wavering voice certainly wouldn't be welcome in the one part of the year the townsfolk thought they were free from college boys.

So he set out to utilize his one other marketable skill. He knocked on the door of every herbalist and apothecary in town (and there were many, the students of Oxenfurt always ready to pay coin for contraceptives and hangover cures and remedies for the flus that ripped through the student body like wildfire) and offered his services gathering ingredients. Some of them turned him down but some of them--old women and men with no children or grandchildren around to run tasks for them as the cold made their bones ache and their joints creak--welcomed him with warm smiles.

He was reminded of Old Hag Nan, and wished more than anything he had said goodbye to her instead of leaving her alone in town with not one customer and a mildewy spot where he had dripped near the fire.

But he wasn't trying to craft his passion into use for these people, he was doing something where he knew he could be of use. He could see the bundles of herbs and roots and bark he returned with hanging from their rafters, could see the tinctures and potions he ran across town for them. No applause that could be simply polite, or smiles that could hide pity, physical symbols of his help, his usefulness.

His classmates came back and he continued to gather herbs and run errands. He preened when they came to him for advice about when to go to an herbalist and when an apothecary, and when to simply drink a large glass of clear water and get a good night's rest. When the first daffodils began poking their heads out of the ground, he worried that his employers would shake the frost out of their bones and begin venturing out into the nearby woods (close enough to the large town to be free of anything too dangerous, he had learned something from Geralt) themselves.

"Dear," one woman shut him down when he brought it up, worried she was continuing to waste her coin on his unnecessary service because she felt obligated to keep him on, "my bones ache year round, it's just worse in winter. That means my fingers aren't quite as steady as they used to be. You know what to cut and where and have no trouble making your hands do just that. Plus, I can do other work in the time I would have been out gathering. Now bring me back a tulip or two if you see them out there."

One of the older apothecaries had him help string herbs up one sunny spring afternoon--a rare occasion, usually Jaskier didn't linger long, but there were many plants blooming to deal with and he was offered extra coin--and pointed out different plants and asked Jaskier to list their properties. They all trusted him to recognize the plants by name by this point, and somewere eager to share their knowledge of what they could be useful for. He was doing well enough, he thought, stumbling over more than he should but finding his way to most answers eventually, when the man came to nettle--one Jaskier knew he had been taught but was always so preoccupied picking the leaves carefully to not get stung he failed to remember. Embarrassed, he sang to himself under his breath.

Mashmallow stems for a throat that's hoarse

Nettle leaves to return you to course

"Diuretic! Nettle is a diuretic." He exclaimed, but the apothecary's face had already shifted to something other than the calm approval usual with Jaskier's answers. Was he disappointed Jaskier needed the aid? Had the tune offended him? The rhyme didn't quite work with different accents, he would admit it wasn't his finest work, but the mnemonic was easy to entertain himself with while he was out gathering, and quite useful in drilling the many plants and their parts into his head.

"I almost forgot you went to the barding university, you speak of classes and professors and fellow students often, but so rarely sing for us. You have a lovely voice. Did you make that rhyme up yourself?"

"Ah, yes. It helps me remember the names of the plants, and is easy enough to try out with different tunes to practice my melodies." Jaskier had been proud of himself, able to bite his tongue enough to not earn the ill will of his various employers. They were kind, but certainly would not suffer his prattling on, and he couldn't risk them deciding his services weren't worth the annoyance. Apparently his self-preservation instinct wasn't quite strong enough to keep him from being yet another obnoxious singer from a college full of them, flooding the poor town.

"Would you ever consider composing a song for me? And perhaps performing it? My granddaughter is getting married, you see, and I've been stuck on what I could do for her. Hiring a bard with a song written just for her would certainly make it special for her."

"Yes! Yes, of course, I'd love that! I'd love to, I mean. When is the wedding, when do you need the song by? What am I talking about, first, what's your granddaughter's name? And her betrothed? How did they meet? I'm sorry, I'll let you- yes. Yes, thank you."

The wedding was a few weeks out, and a bit out of town. Jaskier spent hours composing and plucking at his lute and trying one lyric then trashing the melody for a new one then trashing the lyric for a new one until he had something that wasn't, he thought, totally awful. Classes had been going fine, but his performances had never gone so well he could rest easy about performing--especially not for strangers. At least his classmates looked upon him well enough to smile and pitter patter their hands until he sat down. If he fucked this up he would be ruining a wedding. Well, he reminded himself, that's a little vain. Even if you fuck it up the focus will be on their union, everyone will forget you probably either way so best to just enjoy it.

Somehow, that didn't make him feel better. But the day of the wedding came and he washed his doublet, made sure his hair was respectable, and took three deep, steadying breaths before he walked out the door. The rest of the day went like this: he shook hands and sat and tried not to think about how he wanted what the bride and groom had and could he ever had that and stood and sang and his heart beat so fast and it shouldn't matter any more than those endless roadside tavern performances had except it mattered because he had to see the bride's grandfather every day and he had hired him, he had commissioned him and what if he had done a bad job but he was smiling, smiling the whole way through it as he sang and felt on the verge of tears and wanted to fall to the ground when it was done and burrow into it and never have to hear a word about it but then people were clapping, clapping and smiling and wiping away tears and Jaskier thought. Oh. Right. When the subject matter was right, when the subject matter was right there his songs were much more effective; just like Geralt and Toss a Coin.

He got home late, tripping into bed as the exhaustion from his racing heart--and later dancing feet--took over his entire body. The rest of the wedding had been just as much of a blur as the beginning, only that glorious, glorious moment of applause solidifying itself in his brain like a fly trapped in amber, played over and over again as he drifted off to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♫ on the road again/ just can't wait to get on the road again ♫

Geralt spent much of the fall annoyed with himself. He had spent almost a century walking the Path by himself and within a few months this loud, obnoxious man had made it seem odd to go down a road without a voice fluttering beside him. He spent the usual amount of times with corpses, extracting ingredients for potions and felt it took too long. Glared at alderman reluctant to pay full price and knew the way would be smoothed with laughter and kind words but didn't think he could pull it off as well as Jaskier. Slept without the white noise of Jaskier's tossing and snores. Still made the utmost effort to polish his swords and mix his potions in silence at night, so as to not disturb the ghost of his previous company.

When jobs were messier, or had more casualties than normal, he reminded himself that it wasn't all bad, that it was still over with, that the people would be safe for a time. He preferred having another voice, warm with conviction and admiration, to tell him so. Preferred staying the cynical grump and being talked out of it on choice occasions than wresting the cautious optimism within his own head that now knew it could win in a close fight. But those jobs also reminded him why it was good to be alone again. The causes for his cynicism couldn't reach Jaskier. He was safe. Safe and walking further down his own path, a path that he loved and brought happiness--not just bitter relief--to the people around him.

Geralt didn't think their paths would cross again--the chances of a travelling bard and a travelling Witcher being in the same town at the same time rather slim. Even more so if Jaskier ended up in a cushy court post. But perhaps he'd hear a new song here or there and find it was composed by the bard originally; find that any taste for adventure he had gotten on his travels with Geralt hadn't gotten him killed without the witcher there to protect him.

When the first snows started settling in he began to head north to Kaer Morhen, hesitating a split second at the fork in the road, the western path leading to Oxenfurt, before he moved on. No point dwelling on it. But when he arrived, greeted by Vesemir and his brothers, having narrowly avoided having his way blocked by rapidly piling snow, he was careful not to mention Jaskier. He couldn't tell if that was him not dwelling on it, or if his avoiding the subject was representative of him absolutely still dwelling it. But he didn't think about it too much.

Winter went long that year, the pass impossible to cross until well past the date of the usual first robin sighting. By then, some of his attachment to Jaskier had faded, the company of his brothers and Vesemir soothing his sudden uncomfortableness with solitude. When spring came again, his brothers left one by one. Geralt stayed behind, continuing to work on repair projects and helping Vesemir with planting crops for as long as he could justify, which is to say until Vesemir kicked him out.

He stopped in the town closest to the pass, as he did every spring, for supplies he couldn't get at Kaer Morhen and the chance of an early contract. The notice board was right in front of the tavern and he considered going in for a drink when he picked up on the music coming from inside. He stepped in and there was Jaskier, strumming the final notes of Toss a Coin to more applause than Geralt had seen him get ever before. Either college was improving his performance skills or the fact the village saw good business and good protection from witchers due to their proximity to their stronghold made them a more receptive audience than most. Geralt stayed staring dumbly at Jaskier from just inside the door as he started the first chords of a new song, looking around the audience to gauge their mood--that was new, the bard normally played whatever fancy struck him, perhaps he had learned a thing or two at Oxenfurt--before his eyes reached Geralt and he stopped short.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'd like to introduce the White Wolf of the song you just enjoyed so very much, and my dear friend, Geralt of Rivia!" Jaskier gestured to him with a huge smile and a flourish.

Geralt stayed still, not taking his eyes off Jaskier as he made his way through the crowd, who seemed intrigued by Geralt's appearance but like they would have preferred to hear another song.

"How are you doing? How was your winter? What are you doing in this town, as far as I know nothing has been terrorizing them recently? Or is this just a stop on the road? My winter was lovely, though it stretched a bit too long into what should have been the spring, if you ask me, though I still managed to play at quite a few weddings--yes, Geralt, I am in fact so in demand that even in a town lousy with bardic students I am being invited to play at weddings as a humble first-year student-"

"We're not friends." Geralt had last seen him half a year ago and never expected to see him again. It was odd to see him immediately after leaving Kaer Morhen when he had just spent all winter decidedly not thinking of him.

Jaskier let out a quick burst of laughter, as though it had been startled from him. That was familiar, his immediate response always seemed to be a smile or chuckle of some sort. Delight at any and all things was Jaskier's primary mood. "Leave it to you for that to be the one thing you pick out of my performance, my questions, and my barebones recounting of my own life--of course no need to pay attention to how successful I am, that would lean too much towards a review of my playing--no, of course we're not friends. You are very manly and stoic and have never had a tender emotion in your life, as is befitting a man of your ah- job title."

"Not a man."

"Ah yes you emotionless witcher, you. Now, come, have a drink with me and catch me up on all that has happened in your adventures since I last saw you. I should hate for your exploits to be lost to the sands of time and memories and shall instead salt and dry them to be a tasty snack for later. That metaphor won't work it's way into any of my songs, I promise. It was not my best work but you'll forgive me, as I mentioned before I am yet a humble first year students and many of my classes were in the tonality of playing and singing, and my studies have not yet dug deep into the meat of composing lyrics and as such I have to tinker a bit longer on each simile before they are ready for public consumption."

"Hmm." Geralt was startled by the mug of ale suddenly in front of him, suddenly registering his ass was in a chair. Jaskier had managed to talk him in circles, distracting him as he fussed him over to a table and gestured for drinks.

"Oxenfurt is absolutely wonderful Geralt. I, of course, am very popular amongst my classmates and have had many a raucous night of carousing with my peers, forming the bases for many a great pick-me-up ditty about college boys getting cross-eyed drunk and trying to climb up on rooftops--I don't know what it is about Redanian wine that makes Emerson want to be so high up, or Valdo so competitive. Classes are classes, sometimes terribly boring and never as exciting as composing and performing on the road for all sorts of stoic workers and hardened travelers--you're one of those hardened travelers, you know, though a little bit too hard, if you ask me, you're a tough nut to crack a smile. Ah, another rough bit of wordplay, that could also use some workshopping but I think has promise with a little more polish. If you don't mind." Jaskier barely slowed down as he grabbed a notebook from his pack. New, Geralt noticed, no longer loose papers floating around. "But we make do all the same. Though I have a wellspring of natural talent, sometimes some key waterways of technique must be dug in order to direct it, you understand. I have also been getting practical experience though, gracing weddings and parties of the good folk of Oxenfurt with my song. There is nothing quite like painting the perfect picture of a couple's love to make them fall in love all over again on the day of their union."

It was impressive, really, that Jaskier managed to make his overconfidence so charming. It had the same wink-and-nudge quality that some of his monster hunt songs seemed to have. The sense of Yes, this is all true and I believe it with my whole soul, but isn't it delightful to add a little flair to things? Isn't it fun?

"But what have you been up to? I'm sure you were terribly terribly lonely without me to keep you company. Poor Geralt, walking the path in the winter. Are witchers bothered by snow? Do you still sleep on the ground when it's frozen solid?"

"I wintered at Kaer Morhen with my brothers."

That was a mistake. Jaskier's eyes lit up and he started scribbling on a new page in his notebook as he began to bombard Geralt with question. "You consider the other witchers your brothers? No, first, Kaer Morhen? What does it look like? How long has it been in witcher hands? Did they build it? Was that where you were raised? What is your favorite memory? Do all witchers live there? Do you always go back for the winter? What are your brothers like? Did you grow up with them? Are they literally your brothers? What are they like?"

Geralt tuned out the rest of the questions, knowing he would not answer a single one of them even if they registered, choosing instead to glare menacingly at Jaskier as he drank his ale.

"You're impossible. Well, if you're not willing to answer my questions about your wondrous life, you simply must let me join you on your travels." Jaskier said decisively, as though there wasn't a question that Geralt would ever deny him.

Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong. "I couldn't get rid of you last time, don't think I'm going to succeed this time."

Jaskier followed him as he laid down his coin for the ale and walked out into the fresh spring air.

* * *

Jaskier was spiraling. His songs about travelling with Geralt had earned him praise from his professors and peers alike in his few months, then he had dredged up stories he had yet to turn into song to lay over his invented melodies, then he extrapolated details from uneventful hunts and turned them into sonnets and epics and limericks, and now he was out of lyrical fodder. His nursery-esque rhymes about medicinal herbs wouldn't exactly earn him applause, and the songs he had written for the apothecary's granddaughters wedding--and those of a few of her friends, also of age to marry--didn't work as well in a room full of bored college students who neither knew nor cared about a blacksmith's daughter having a straightforward courtship with the miller's boy. His words and tunes weren't clever enough on their own to earn him praise, he couldn't warp a mountain from a molehill with lyrics alone, he needed good subject matter to be a vessel for. He was destined to be a teller of histories, not a great wordsmith or player in his own right, no matter how much it stung. He ended the semester with lower marks than he had gotten all year.

He didn't do so poorly as to get kicked out, and earned enough goodwill with the registrar (his young son had a terrible cough in the beginnings of spring and Jaskier had been the one to take a day's journey to fetch the root of a plant that lived far underwater to cure him) to be able to pay his tuition for the next year in installments. Between his errands and gathering, and various engagements he had been hired for through the ever-growing network of people who had heard him sing at one occasion or another, all tracing back to that one wedding, he had enough for the coming fall, and would have to hope he could make enough over the summer and during the coming semester to be able to pay for spring.

It would be safest to stay in Oxenfurt, perhaps renting a room from one of his contacts and continuing his odd jobs where he was known and liked. But what was the point of making the money for the next semester if he was going to fail his classes for his poor songwriting? Could he consider himself a success for simply being able to pay for university, risking flunking out the entire way regardless? He could he find a post after Oxenfurt that way? He would simply be trapped here, better than the way he would be trapped at home following his father's wishes, but trapped nonetheless, watching each incoming class and getting more and more bitter at their success. The thought made him want to crawl out of his skin. No, he would go out and find song material worthy of showing others, and scrape by with whatever he managed to make in the fall.

It was terrible of Jaskier, he knew, to force Geralt to deal with him tagging along any longer, to ambush the man who thought he was blessedly rid of Jaskier and his big mouth forever, but he knew no other way to ensure he could find enough adventure to sustain his songs--along with his own itch--for another year. So he asked around. He asked each of his employers where he might find a witcher, specifically a white-haired one with honey eyes. Well, he mentioned the eyes to the first few before their knowing looks made him think he should perhaps focus on other, less romantic adjectives in his descriptions. Most didn't know, but one pointed him to the next town over where her sister-in-law lived, and had more stories than most about witchers coming through her childhood village. She also gave him a half-wheel of hard cheese, wrapped up tight for his journey, saying to come back the instant he got tired of the road. He left her with a "my dear lady, I shall think of you daily until I return" and a deep bow. Her creaky, delighted laughter followed him out the door.

Her sister-in-law, it turned out, lived near where many witchers must stay for the winter, reporting that they always came through in the spring, one after another. "Any beasties that show up from the first robin to the peak of the daffodils is always taken care of within a few days. It's a good place to live." He thanked her and moved on, worried it would be too late in the spring for him to catch Geralt, if he wintered in that same place. It had been a month since snowmelt, cold had lingered that year but the semester had not ended until well into spring.

He hung around town for three days, whittling down his travel money and hanging around the tavern. Eventually, he gave up, thinking he would try to find adventure--or at least a paying audience--on his own for the summer. If he continued to travel, he could simply replay the few songs that got the best reaction in each place, not needing new content until he returned to the university.

Yet just as he was starting his third song, he saw Geralt in the door of the tavern and his heart seemed to fly out of his chest. It was truly terrible how beautiful that man was. How solid and steady he always seemed to be, a pillar holding up the sky no matter where he stood. The way his gaze pierced to the heart of things, cutting away frivolity he found unnecessary. How Jaskier's hopes for music to sway the hearts of the masses to sway from his own lips seemed to flutter, circling the man like the moon around the sun.

Jaskier announced Geralt to the crowd, cringing the moment the words started coming out of his mouth, knowing Geralt would hate the attention but unable to stop his half-explanation for stopping short once he had started and desperate for the villagers to know that he had some connection with this beautiful man, for their recognition of that fact, as though their travels the previous year would ripple away like a reflection on a pond if these strangers did not see proof of it.

He bounced up to Geralt as the villagers turned back to their drinks, surely annoyed at the rudeness of his exit, but he couldn't waste a second lest the man run out before he could latch on to him. He bombarded him with questions, not even stopping to let him answer--stupid, Geralt needed quite a bit of silent prompting before he would return most queries--before realizing that he should show Geralt that he was doing quite well on his own, and that he should not pity him for needing to continue to travel with him and that he totally did not need the man's company because he had simply been doing so well.

And Geralt cut him off to curtly remind him that they were not, in fact, friends. Which Jaskier knew, of course. How could he think otherwise, with Geralt's silence and snipes and extremely begrudging company? He wasn't an idiot; he knew when he was barely tolerated. It stung though, that Geralt wouldn't even let the word slide. Would have stung anyways, but especially so when it had been a quick justification to a group of strangers who would forget the comment within the hour. What was he supposed to say, "Sorry folks, I have to go catch up with this man he could easily murder me with both hands tied behind his back because I'm desperate to use his life for songs because otherwise I'll crash and burn as a bard and all of the dreams and hopes I've had for my entire life will come to nothing?" Was it so bad to be his friend? Perhaps it was, he talked too much and refused to leave even when he knew Geralt didn't want him there and was so self centered and egotistical and absolutely useless to Geralt and just slowed him down and certainly Geralt had nothing to show for his time together. But Jaskier laughed instead, letting the cold shock of the words drag something resembling mirth out of him in place of a pained breath.

Jaskier let his mouth run without thinking where it was going, pleased he was able to get Geralt sitting down with a drink as he exaggerated tales of his success at Oxenfurt in all matters of his life. His brain kept coming back to his apothecary work. Every time it came to the forefront of his mind he stalled with more self-aggrandizement and haphazard analogies until he could think of the next thing. It was too boring to tell Geralt, not representative the flashy, fashionable, erudite man he wanted so badly to be, wanted so badly for this man to see him as.

Jaskier's jaw nearly dropped when Geralt mentioned Kaer Morhen, desperate to hear more. Geralt led such a fascinating life, he wanted every detail, wanted to know what forces had shaped the man who stood before him, whether or not he could work it into a song. Geralt, predictably, was not interested in letting Jaskier see any more of himself than he had to. Yet somehow, Jaskier was able to segue that into a not-casual-enough self-invitation on Geralt's travels. And somehow, Geralt said yes.

Well, not quite.

But it was enough.


End file.
